


Hotch’s Piano Concerto No.5

by Angst_BuriTTo



Series: The Reaper of the Opera [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Episode: s05e01 Nameless Faceless, Heavy Angst, Mild Gore, No Character Death, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22180312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angst_BuriTTo/pseuds/Angst_BuriTTo
Summary: “Are you listening, Aaron,” Foyet murmured, twitching the knife handle back and forth a bit, making Hotch release a hitched whimper as the blade scraped back in forth against his rib bones. “Shhh, Shhh, don’t make a sound, Aaron,” Foyet mockingly patted Hotch’s cheek in a facsimile of care, eyes glittering with malice, pupils blown in pleasure at having Hotch at his mercy, helpless underneath him, in pain. “Breath in short breaths, that’s it, good boy - if you breath in too much I might puncture your lung. We wouldn’t want the fun to end so soon, would we?”
Series: The Reaper of the Opera [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616791
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	Hotch’s Piano Concerto No.5

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Criminal minds fanfic, please be kind! Disclaimer: do I look rich to you????

* * *

The moment he had heard Foyet’s voice and the click of his gun behind him, Hotch couldn’t help but think of Elle; was this how she felt when the Fisher King had held her at gunpoint and shot her in her own apartment? Both of them were supposed to feel safe and relaxed in their places of rest, where they slept when not in the vicinity of crime and criminals. Safety: invaded, and security: ripped away, by the cruel hands of a sadistic mind - something they expected to be free and unreachable under the roof that they slumbered under. The team, more than anyone, knew realistically that safety anywhere was just an illusion - Unsub’s could reach you wherever, and whenever you were - it just depended on how determined and intelligent that said Unsub was.

And Foyet was one of the best.

“You should have made a deal.” Despite the words, Foyet’s voice held a hint of glee in it, mixed within the anger of his tone. Some part of Foyet clearly enjoyed the chance to retaliate at Hotch for not taking the same deal he had made with Shaunassy, to have the opportunity to take Hotch down off of his perceived pedestal.

Hotch didn’t react outwardly to the words, instead, he forced his hands to stay steady as he placed down his glass, a irrational part of his brain remarking that he didn’t even get to have a sip of the intoxicant before having to face Foyet. He had only a split second to control his face, make it a blank mask that he used at work and in the field and confronting unsub’s.

He refused to show the fact that his heart was racing as he stared death in the face; thoughts of his son, of Jack, racing through his mind. How would Jack react when he learned that his daddy wasn’t coming home this time? Would Haley blame him for leaving Jack fatherless, talking about him as their son grew up with bitterness and resentment - or would she mourn his loss with Jack, tell his little boy that his daddy died protecting people from the bad guys?

Would his team catch Foyet before the Reaper went after his family?

Face blank and unafraid, but his heart and mind racing with fear, Hotch stared down the barrel of the gun that was pointed at him by the Reaper, mask and all. 

“Is this part of my profile, Aaron - you can’t show me fear?” Despite the mask, Hotch could hear the smirk layered in Foyet’s voice, and the eyes behind the mask showed his amusement.

Carefully, Hotch replied; “If you don’t see fear, maybe it’s because I’m not afraid of you.” not a lie, but not the whole truth, either; Foyet could profile just like his team, though, so Hotch’s efforts to show his future killer that he didn’t fear him was for not.

“You said that like you _actually_ meant it,” Foyet chuckled. “How’s my friend, Agent Morgan? I hear I gave him quite the knock over the head,” Foyet tilted his head, “I didn’t even get a _thank you_ , for letting him live.”

Biting back the snarl that Hotch wanted to let free at Foyet’s baiting, he tensed. “Are you here to kill me, or are you here to play games?” Hotch hated when unsub’s played games - a mockery of the word.

“You tell me, Aaron, what do you think? Enlighten me, about my *behavior*. Tell me, Aaron, would I use this?” Foyet twitched the gun, and Hotch couldn’t help as his eyes snapped to the gun, before focussing back on Foyet.

But it was too late; the next few moments were a blur, until Hotch found himself on his back, his head pounding and disoriented.

He was about to attempt to get up when he felt Foyet straddle his hips and a sudden sharp, agonizing pain hit him, in his abdomen. He cried out as Foyet pushed forward on the knife he had shoved into him, and Hotch’s breath hitched as he felt the blade scrape against his ribs, sending sharp signals of pain radiating through his body.

“Are you listening, Aaron,” Foyet murmured, twitching the knife handle back and forth a bit, making Hotch release a hitched whimper as the blade scraped back in forth against his rib bones. “Shhh, Shhh, don’t make a sound, Aaron,” Foyet mockingly patted Hotch’s cheek in a facsimile of care, eyes glittering with malice, pupils blown in pleasure at having Hotch at his mercy, helpless underneath him, in pain. “Breath in short breaths, that’s it, good boy - if you breath in too much I might puncture your lung. We wouldn’t want the fun to end so soon, would we?” Another wiggle, an added twist, and Foyet slowly - _oh so slowly_ \- slid the knife out, making sure to twist it in tiny motions on the way out, the sucking sound as it slid out of his body would haunt Hotch until the day he died.

Rolling his head to the side, Hotch took the moment to let in a deeper breath, whining lowly at the sharp pain hit him at the motion, the wet, warm feeling of blood sliding on his skin making him hitch his breath on the inhale.

The sickening feel of Foyet’s bare hands sliding through the blood on his skin sent goosebumps rising on Hotch’s arms, until Foyet suddenly plunged his fingers into the wound, the squelch of blood and skin another sound Hotch would never forget - neither would he forget the agony so strong that all he could let out was a chocked cry as he felt Foyet’s fingers _inside his abdomen_ , wiggling and poking, and then caressing a rib.

“It’s almost like sticking your hand in a warm pot pie,” Foyet mused, eyes hooded and a lazy smirk touching his lips.

Hotch would never eat pot pie again.

Foyet wiggled his fingers a bit more, before removing them the same way he removed the knife. The feeling of Foyet removing his fingers was almost as bad as him sticking them in - the killer made sure to stroke his fingers along his insides as he drew them out, leaving Hotch to shudder, partly in disgust, partly in pain.

“My team will find you,” Hotch’s voice was thin, pained; he didn’t bother to even attempt to pretend that he wasn’t in agony - not only would he not be able to at this point, his pain receptors firing on all cylinders and his abdomen screaming at him, but Foyet wouldn’t believe him. Nobody would; nobody could feel nothing under torture (a voice in his mind that sounded strangely like Reid reminded him that CIPA patients couldn’t feel pain and therefore his statement wasn’t 100 percent accurate.)

Foyet’s laughter reverberated onto Hotch, and the Agent realized with a distant horror that Foyet had gotten hard from this - his groin pressed agains Hotch’s and the killer’s hardness digging into his own, soft groin.

Foyet’s hips twitched back and forth, smugness radiating from him as Hotch finally radiated the fear he had been looking for. Foyet’s eyes went dark, pupils dilating, and he rolled his hips fully into Hotch, satisfaction clear on his face as his prey finally gave into that primal fear.

Hotch couldn’t help it.

“Plea-please, don’t,” Hotch pled, and Foyet grinned sadistically, using his knife to trail it lightly along his stomach and up his chest, leaning forward as he moved the knife. Foyet leaned his head forward, his lips brushing his ear as he rolled his hips in time with the stroking of the knife against Hotch’s side.

“You know,” Foyet whispered in his ear, breath hot and damp against his flesh, “as delectable as it is to see the fear in your eyes as you wonder if I’m going to take you, mark you, _claim you_ ,” Foyet breathed in deep through his nose, smelling him, before letting out a deep, pleasured groan, “smell your fear and feel you tremble under me...mmm,” Foyet hummed, before moving his face even closer, lips brushing the shell of Hotch’s ear, “You’re just not my type.”

Hotch had a split second to feel relief that he wouldn’t be sexually assaulted before he cried out in pain as Foyet thrust the blade into his side, dragging it down for at least five inches, scraping and digging into ribs along the way.

Hotch had the hysterical thought that Foyet was using his knife as fingers and his ribs like piano keys; the sadistic killers own version of music was Hotch’s agonized cries in reaction to his ‘keys’ being pressed like a symphony to Foyet.

He was most likely very accurate in his thoughts.

“You profilers like to say that the act of stabbing someone is a sign of impotence,” Foyet murmured, rubbing a finger up and down Hotch’s newest wound, and Hotch let out hiss at the sting, the feel of his skin being parted by Foyet’s finger, up and down, a parody of what a man would do to a woman in very different area. Shuddering at the implication, even though Foyet had said Hotch wasn’t his type, the killer clearly enjoyed making Hotch fear the threat of it. Foyet rolled his hips again, showing Hotch that his was still hard and not deflating any time soon. “Do I seem _impotent_ to you, Aaron?” Foyet hummed at Hotch’s lack of reply, and with a jerk of his hand, dug his nails into the wound, Hotch letting out a hoarse scream as Foyet scraped against bone and muscle.

“You know,” Foyet spoke casually, as if he didn’t have his fingers digging into Hotch’s wound, “I’m kinda glad you didn’t take the deal, Aaron, after all,” Hotch let out a high pitched whine as Foyet slowly, oh-so-delicately, slid the blade into the middle of his chest, carefully avoiding anything that would cause him to bleed out and ruin his fun.

“If you took the deal, I wouldn’t have had the chance to get to know you, every, single, inch of you.” He punctuated each pause with a jerk downwards, Hotch jerking weakly as he let out short, sobbing cries at the pain.

“Shhhh...Be quite, Aaron, save your oxygen, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” Foyet stroked a finger down Hotch’s wet cheek in a parody of gentleness. “Wouldn’t want our fun to end so soon, would we?”

“ _Please_...” Hotch couldn’t believe how much pain he was in; he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t passed out yet, hadn’t lost enough blood that staying conscious wasn’t an option anymore. Foyet had a lot of practice at knowing how to keep his victims awake, clearly.

“Do you know how much knowledge you have to have about the human body to be able to stab yourself repeatedly and not die, Aaron?” Foyet slid the knife in again, slowly, then a quick jerk, and Hotch could barely let out an agonized whine. “I don’t want to brag but, I’m somewhat of an _expert_.”

“M’ ‘eam....” Hotch muttered, mind hazy with the pain, and Foyet scoffed.

“Your _team_ didn’t catch me until I wanted them to, and right now, I don’t want them to; so they won’t.”

“‘top, ‘ease...”

“I’d show you my scars,” Foyet smirked, “but your’s are gonna be just the same; why ruin the surprise? Now relax... Your body will go numb, and the blade will go in so much easier...for me.”

Foyet slid the blade in again, and at this point Hotch couldn’t tell where he was stabbing him; Foyet was right, Hotch realized, his vision slowly darkening; he was numb now. It didn’t hurt.

That didn’t stop Foyet, though.

It felt like ages later that Hotch passed out, and he couldn’t help but feel achingly grateful that he wouldn’t be awake when he died. Foyet wouldn’t gain any pleasure from killing him when he was passed out, so he would let him bleed out instead of giving the final killing blow.

He would die peacefully, in a sense. His only regret was that he couldn’t say goodbye to his son or his team; that his son would grow up without a father.

As the darkness claimed him, he sent out a prayer that his son wouldn’t grow up without a father figure.

* * *


End file.
